


Finding Harold

by gracefultree



Series: 2020: John Warren [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, version 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: John Warren has Harold Wren's phone number.  Now he needs to find the man.





	1. Finding Harold

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of one version of what happens after John and Harold meet in a restaurant in 2020 where John thinks he's John Warren and Harold thinks he's dead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Warren goes to United Heritage Insurance to find the elusive Mr. Wren.

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly before finishing his lukewarm coffee and tossing the paper cup in the trash. He approached the building that housed the main offices of United Heritage Insurance and prayed that he wasn’t making a very bad decision to search out his past with a man he barely knew.  


Harold Wren was a difficult man to track down, John had discovered. He never responded to the texts John sent him the night after they met. He didn’t answer his phone when John called three days later, nor again two days after that. The number was disconnected when he tried calling a third time. Harold was avoiding him for some reason, of that, John was sure.  


Given the disturbing dreams John had been having about the man, he wasn’t surprised. He awoke in a cold sweat, visions of blood and death chasing him. He saw Harold surrounded by computers, books, guns. He saw him drawing a gun on Harold. He saw himself in a bomb vest. He saw himself in a hospital room, Harold fast asleep in a chair beside the bed. He had visions of other countries, other lives, people he knew he’d killed, even if he didn’t remember doing it. Was Harold avoiding him because he’d killed people? Because he’d threatened him?  


That didn’t seem likely, knowing the little he did about the man.  


_“You died protecting me…”_ Harold had said.  


As he rode the elevator, he thought about the other dreams. He’d just kissed Harold once in the restaurant, but he had vivid dreams of Harold’s fingers on his skin… sweaty, hot dreams that woke in him a desire he hadn’t felt since he came to in the hospital three and a half years ago.  


He’d never thought about sex with men before, at least that he could remember, but when he visualized those dreams or the feel of Harold’s lips on his…  


He had to find Harold. He knew that much.  


“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Wren works remotely on Tuesdays,” the receptionist said. “I can take a message, or…” She trailed off into a pleasantly helpful expression. “Have you tried emailing him?”  


John responded with his most disarming smile, trying not to let the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach show. Harold hadn’t responded to emails any more than he had to phone calls. “I really need to find him quickly,” he said, lowering his voice to gain her confidence. He might not remember huge chunks of his past, but he knew women responded to that tone of voice. “You see, I woke up in the hospital with no memories, and all I could find was this card with his name,” he added, splicing the truth into his story. He handed her the card Harold gave him three weeks ago, then his driver’s license when she asked for it.  


She examined the cards for a moment and started typing on her computer. “Well, Mr. Warren, I don’t have you listed as one of our clients,” she started. “But since he’s given you his cell phone, I don’t see the harm in telling you how to find him,” she added brightly. “You must be a friend.” She returned both cards and a slip of paper with an address.  


“Thank you,” he said, tucking everything away. “I really appreciate your help.”  


.  


.  


.  


It took John another week to go to the address he’d been given. He hadn’t tried contacting Harold in the meantime, hoping that his radio silence would encourage Harold to respond, but that plan had backfired: Still no contact. As he walked up the steps, he felt a feeling of deja vu. Had he been here before?  


A slender woman in her late forties answered the door. Her smile fell away as she saw him. He felt his stomach twist. She knew him. What did that mean?  


“I’m looking for Harold Wren,” he offered when she didn’t say anything.  


“He told me you were dead,” she said in a flat voice.  


“I apologize for just showing up like this, but I don’t remember you, or much of anything, actually,” he said, trying to let her see his embarrassment. If she didn’t know he was alive, that meant Harold hadn’t mentioned meeting him. _Not good,_ his instincts told him. “I lost fifteen years of memories, and only just started getting little bits back. I think I know Harold, but everything’s mixed up in my head, so I’m not even sure of that. I’m John Warren,” he added, extending a hand. If he could play off the memory loss, maybe he’d find out more of what he needed to know. She looked him up and down for a moment, then brushed her long red hair behind her ear and shook his hand.  


“He’s not here,” she said in a slightly friendlier tone, holding the door open. “But you may as well come in and wait for him. He should be back within the hour.”  


John hesitantly stepped into the apartment, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. She left him in the living room for a moment while she went to the kitchen to get them coffee. He accepted gratefully.  


“I don’t know very much about you,” Grace said after introducing herself properly. “I know you worked with Harold, and that he thinks the job you did together killed you.”  


“I almost died four years ago,” John replied. “Do you know what we did?”  


“No,” she answered, sipping her coffee. “He doesn’t like to talk about that time of his life.” She paused and regarded him carefully. “He’s only mentioned you once or twice, even, though I know you’re important to him. He’s been very depressed since we came back to New York and he saw your grave. He’ll be overjoyed to see you.”  


“I hope so. I’m not too sure, though. Maybe I’m a reminder of his past he doesn’t want?”  


“He loves you,” she said with conviction. “He won’t talk about that, either, but he does. As much as he loves me, I think, and he feels guilty about it.”  


“I didn’t come here to take him from you,” John protested. “I’m just trying to figure out who I am.”  


“I know. I can see it on your face. But you have to know, he hasn’t been mine since he faked his own death in 2010 and let me live for six years without him,” she said sadly. “He hasn’t been mine in the four years we’ve been reunited.”  


“I don’t understand.”  


“The Harold I knew, the Harold I fell in love with, he died in 2010. When he came back in 2016 we wanted it to work. We’ve tried very hard for it to work, but it’s not working. I’m not the same person, either, and it’s hard to forgive someone who pretended to be dead for so long out of some convoluted sense of trying to protect me.”  


They sat in silence for a minute.  


“I love Harold, and that’s never going to change, but I’ve come to love him as a friend, not a lover. I know he’s never going to marry me. I’m trying to accept that.” She sighed. “I want him to be happy, John, and if you’re the person that makes him happy, than I want that for him. I won’t stand in your way.”  


John was saved from answering by the front door opening. He heard a dog barking excitedly and Harold’s voice reprimanding it. He hastily put down his coffee mug and stood, Grace following suit. He had three seconds to see the shock on Harold’s face before a large dog tackled him so forcefully he dropped to his knees to accept its enthusiastic greeting.  


.  


.  


.


	2. Harold's Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold finds John in his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have an end in sight, but the words keep coming, so I'll keep giving them to you. Enjoy!

John was in his living room.

John was in his living room, with Grace. 

John was in his living room, with Grace, and it seemed like he’d been there long enough to finish a cup of coffee and have at least part of a conversation. 

John was in his living room, with Grace, greeting Bear as if he knew him. 

Did John remember? 

Harold took a hesitant step forward. “John?” 

Bear ran back and forth between them, jumping and barking happily, his two owners back together. John raised his head to meet Harold’s eyes from where he crouched on the floor. 

“Miss me, Harold?” he asked, his voice the same low rumble from all those years ago. His eyes were sparkling in rare, unfettered joy. Harold felt a painful explosion in his chest. 

“What are you doing here?” he blurted. He saw the hurt on John’s face, quickly concealed. He cursed his inability to respond to people appropriately. He cursed the fear that kept him from responding to John’s overtures the past month. “I’m sorry, that was unaccountably rude of me. Would you —“ 

John stood gracefully and stepped up to Harold. He didn’t move to touch him, but the raw emotion in his voice made the pain in Harold’s chest that much worse. “I’ve been trying to find you.” 

“I —“ Harold stopped. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. He’d known he was taking a risk not returning John’s calls. He’d known John would eventually find him. If he were being honest with himself, something he didn’t do very often since that day on the rooftop, he’d _wanted_ John to find him. He’d wanted — 

He could never have what he wanted. 

In his peripheral vision, Grace turned to walk out of the room. 

“Grace?” Harold called. 

“Go spend time with him, Harold,” she answered. “It’s not every day someone comes back from the dead.” She climbed the stairs to the second floor, leaving them alone. “I should know,” she added bitterly, just loud enough that Harold heard. 

He turned to John. 

“You didn’t answer my calls,” John admonished, touching Harold’s arm now that they were alone. “I was worried.” 

“I was avoiding you,” Harold said. “But you figured that out.” 

“I’d like to know why.” 

Harold limped over to the couch and sat down. John took a seat next to him, close enough that their thighs touched. Harold inched away. 

“Harold?” 

“I promised you once I’d never lie to you,” Harold breathed. “I decided it was better to say nothing than feel obligated to lie.” John gave a questioning look. “You don’t remember what we did, I presume? Everything I could possibly tell you would be a lie, then.” 

“Because you don’t want me to know what we did?” 

“Because I’m scared of being drawn back into that life,” Harold said. “It nearly killed us, several times over. Because I don’t know what to do with the feelings you’re bringing up in me. Because I don’t want to hurt Grace…” 

“Let me take you to dinner,” John offered. “I told Grace I wasn’t here to take you from her, and I mean it. Just come talk to me. Please.” 

Harold closed his eyes and thought about John’s offer. He thought about the arguments he’d been having with the Machine, who kept telling him to respond to John now that he was willing to talk to her again. He thought about the lies and secrets that formed the basis of his relationship with Grace, and the fact that they hadn’t had sex in almost two years. He thought about the one time he’d allowed himself to picture John when he showered, and the heady orgasm that followed. 

It was the first orgasm he’d bothered with having in months. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. His phone beeped. 

_Go with him!_ the Machine ordered. 

“It’s not that simple,” he hissed. 

_She’s planning on leaving you,_ the Machine added, showing him a snapshot of Grace’s most recent internet searches, which included one- or two-bedroom apartments and job listings in the art world. 

Harold drew a deep breath. “Give me a few minutes to change,” he said to John. 

. 

. 

. 

“Grace said she’d watch Bear tonight,” Harold said as he descended the stairs. “Do you have a car, or should I have one of my drivers come get us?” 

“I didn’t bring my car,” John answered. He gave Harold’s new suit an appraising glance. “Is that bespoke?” 

“Of course.” Harold’s lips twitched in a small smile. “It’s not every day that an attractive young man offers to buy me dinner,” Harold said, giving in to the desire to flirt. He and Grace had had a hurried discussion while he shaved and got dressed. It had been one of the most frank and honest conversations they’d had in years, and her insistence that she would rather see Harold happy with John than miserable with her had shocked him. 

She’d seen through his depression and fear and gotten at the heart of the matter: Harold was in love with John, and that was ok with her. She didn’t need to marry him. She’d be fine on her own. It might improve their relationship, actually, she said, now that I won’t be living with all your secrets. 

Then she kissed his cheek, straightened his tie, and wished him well on his date. 

He felt surprisingly light afterwards, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. He and Grace had broken up amicably, and he didn’t feel crushed by the loss. Of course, now he had John back in his life, even if he didn’t remember much of them. 

“I don’t know about young,” John responded. 

“You’re 8 years younger than me, John. That qualifies.” 

. 

. 

.


	3. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Harold out... is it a date, or isn't it?

“So, uh, what’s going on here, Harold?” John asked over dinner. 

Harold sipped his wine before answering. “I’m not sure what you mean?” 

“Well, first you kiss me and tell me you love me, then you avoid me for a month, then you seem unhappy when I show up at your house — which I understand, of course — and now it feels like we’re on a date.” 

“Would you be upset if this were a date?” 

“Thirty minutes ago we were talking to your _fiancee.”_

“Would you be upset?” Harold repeated. 

“That’s not the point!” 

“What _is_ the point?” 

“Why do I think I reenlisted in 2001 when I have no record of it? Why am I having dreams about killing people in countries I _know_ I’ve never been to? Why are my memories of my field so superficial I needed to take an entire MBA course a _second time_ to be able to do my job? Who are you and who am I and why am I convinced you know the answers to all those questions?” 

“Mr. Ree— Mr. Warren, I —“ 

“What were you about to call me?” John interrupted, banging on his hands on the table and getting to his feet. “What’s my _name?”_

“John. Your name is John,” Harold blurted, suddenly frightened. He’d never been frightened of John before, not even when he’d had Harold up against a hotel wall choking him, but John Warren was an unknown. Harold had no idea what he was capable of. “Your mother named you John, your adoptive mother kept it, and that’s the name under which you enlisted. You hate being called Johnny and you tried to go by Jake for a year in high school, but it never took. The rest is window dressing. You’re John Warren now and that’s the end of it.” 

“I wasn’t adopted,” John protested. 

“You were seven weeks old and your parents never told you, but I found the records. You had a blue blanket that you kept until you were thirteen when you decided that it was too childish to have, but your mother saved it in a box in her attic that you found after she died in 1996.” 

“I remember that blanket. How do you —“ 

“I know exactly —“ 

Harold’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and silenced it when he saw it was a System number. The Machine, he decided. He didn’t want to hear form her in the middle of his date. He should’ve removed the battery. The phone beeped with a text message. He looked down. 

_If you finish that sentence, he'll remember everything,_ the Machine texted. Harlod blanched. 

"Excuse me, but I really must take this," he said to John and bolted from the table. 

_Please put in your earwig, Harry. It's time we had a real conversation._

"I don't have—“ 

_Left trouser pocket._

Harold reached into his pocket and pulled out the earwig. With a sigh, he put it in his ear. 

"That's better," the Machine said in Root's voice. He felt a wave of loss at hearing her. He hadn’t allowed the Machine to speak to him yet. ”Now, where were we?" 

"How will talking to John make him remember?" 

"That's the beauty of it, Harold. You don't even have to tell him anything. Just say one key phrase and it'll all come rushing back. I'd be careful about where you are when you do it, though, because it might be a tad overwhelming for him.” 

"What did you do to him?" Harold demanded angrily. 

"Nothing he didn't choose for himself," she countered. "I gave him options, and he chose this one." 

"What, exactly, did he choose?" 

"I gave him the option of staying John Reese or giving up that life and being John Warren for real. Wouldn't you know he chose to leave you behind to have a chance at happiness with Grace than go with his real desires and stay by your side? He knew you wouldn't return to her if he was still around, so he picked giving up his own happiness and purpose for you." 

"But he's here. You made us meet." 

"John stipulated that if you were worse off —“ 

"Define worse off." 

“Being in recognizable, preventable mortal danger. Wanting to kill yourself." She paused. "He said that there had to be a failsafe. That he could be able to come back and save you or talk you out of it if it got that bad." 

"And it has," Harold whispered. "More than ever this month." 

"I know. That's why I made sure he got your address. That's why I prompted him to follow up with it." 

"You talked to him?" 

"Of course not! John Warren doesn't know anything about me. I manipulated the internet ads on his computer." 

"What do I do now?" 

"You want my advice?" The Machine sounded skeptical. 

"You seem to know me better than I know myself." 

"I've spent my whole life studying you. And I have even more computing power than ever. Whether you want John Reese or John Warren, you need one of them in your life." 

"You think so?" 

"Grace is moving on. It's time you did, too." 

Harold pulled out the earwig and shoved it in his pocket. 

"Do you have to go?" John asked when Harold returned to their table. 

"No, I just have to make a difficult decision," Harold answered. 

"Need help making it?" 

"Maybe we should go somewhere more private," Harold suggested. 

"Ok," John agreed. "Whatever you want." 

. 

. 

. 

‘Someplace private’ turned out to be a lavish apartment in a Brooklyn brownstone. 

“I own the building, of course,” Harold explained as they rode the elevator to the top floor as if it were the most obvious thing in the world to think that Harold owned an entire building. 

“Of course,” John echoed, startled. He wondered if Harold owned the Doggie Daycare on the first floor where Harold left Bear, and decided that if he owned the building, and let them watch his dog, there must be a connection of some kind. Who _was_ Harold? Mysterious billionaire? 

The elevator opened into a foyer, complete with a sofa, two matching end-tables, beautiful stained-glass lamps, and a door on the far wall with a sophisticated security system. Harold punched in a ridiculously long code and opened the door. Looking around the new room, John noticed the camera in the corner, the set of shelves with boxes and metal cages on them, and a large waist-high mahogany cabinet along one wall. Harold pulled out little trays that resembled the ones at airport security lines, only these were made of porcelain. 

“Please empty your pockets,” he said, beginning to empty his own. 

“This is a little strange,” John commented. 

“I have more stringent security measures in place than when you knew me,” Harold said. “Does your watch have one of those chips? If so, it’ll need to go in the tray as well.” 

“I thought all watches had them these days,” John said, obliging him and dropping his watch on top of his wallet, keys, pen, phone, and spare change. 

“Most do, however for the right price, you can buy them without,” Harold murmured absently, producing three cell phones from his pockets. He opened the covers and removed the SIM cards and batteries before putting them in a separate tray from his other things. He grabbed a fourth tray and took John’s cell phone apart. Harold added his cufflinks to the tray with his phones and watch. “Any other electronics? Bluetooth, Wi-Fi? Tracking microchip?” 

“You want my belt and shoes, too?” John asked, trying to make it into a joke. He suspected it fell flat because of the annoyed look Harold flashed him. 

“This is not a prison,” he said curtly. “If you disagree with my processes, you’re free to leave now.” He transferred John’s watch to join his phone, though he didn’t take it apart to remove the chip. 

“If I leave now, will I ever see you again?” John asked, suspecting he knew the answer by the way Harold was acting. 

“No.” 

John sighed. Odd as this was, he needed to know. He started undoing his cufflinks. Harold glanced over. 

“Oh, unless there’s a tracker in them, you don’t need to remove those,” he said in a kinder voice. 

“You have trackers in your cufflinks?” 

“Of course. My glasses, and watch, too.” 

“I must admit I’m a little confused,” John concluded, watching as Harold put each tray into its own metal box, then put each box into its own cage on the shelving. Each cage had an on/off switch, which Harold flicked to ‘on.’ “Are those lead-lined boxes?” 

“Very good,” Harold replied. “Yes, and these are faraday cages,” he added, indicating the meshwork cages. “To suppress wi-fi or networking by the devices if for some reason the lead doesn’t work.” He took off his glasses and put them in the final box. “I’m a very private person,” he explained after a moment. 

“That sounds familiar.” 

“One of the first things I told you,” Harold said. He pulled out a new pair of glasses from inside the cabinet. “There we are,” he added. He turned his whole body to look at John. “I apologize for the lack of explanation, however once you decide what you’d like to know about your past, I can tell you more.” 

John licked his lips. “So far, it all seems to add up to international espionage,” he said with a grin. Harold’s eyes widened behind his glasses and he turned away. He started inputting another long sequence into keypad by the door on the far wall. Once it opened, he motioned John to precede him. 

Looking around the next room, John discovered a cozy apartment, not in keeping with whatever rigamarole they’d just gone through. An open floor-plan to match the space of having the entire floor, there was a seating area, a kitchen, a dining area, and a hallway that presumably lead to the bedroom(s) and bathroom. There were books everywhere, on every surface, in piles on the floor, overflowing the bookshelves. He immediately noted the complete lack of electronics, with the exception of a microwave and a laptop on the coffee table that sat in a tray, the battery beside it. No TV, no stereo equipment, nothing but the computer. 

“I can’t decide if you’re paranoid about being tracked and a technophobe, or a technophile with all the pretty gadgets you want squirreled away out of sight,” John said as he stepped in. 

“A bit of both, I’m afraid,” Harold answered. He stood in the doorway. “Once I close this door, we’ll be entirely cut off from networked communications from the outside world. I have a transistor radio in the study, and if I need the internet, there’s an ethernet cable for the laptop, and a landline phone, basic, of course, but that’s it.” 

“So there could be a nuclear holocaust outside and you wouldn’t know unless you happened to be listening to the radio?” 

“Oh, no, not at all. I’m much more prepared.” He indicated a light above the door. “I have an alert system.” He walked inside and closed the door, leaving a small crack open. “Can you hear me?” he asked the air. 

The light above the door blinked a few times, the Morse code for ‘yes.’ 

“Good. Are there any projected threats to myself or Mr. Warren in the next 10-12 hours?” 

_No._

“Excellent. I’d like a 90-minute heads-up if that changes. Otherwise, I’ll have the privacy settings we discussed in place. Do you understand?” 

_Yes._

“Good. Any questions?” 

_Enjoy your reunion._

“Thank you.” Harold closed the door firmly and locked it. He looked up at the light again. “Can you hear me?” The light remained off. “Excellent.” He turned to John and smiled. “Thank you for putting up with that. I know it seems unusual, but I’ll explain later. Would you like some tea?” 

. 

. 

. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold talk.

“Do you remember anything about us? About what we were trying to do?” 

Instead of answering, John leaned forward so that his nose almost touched the skin of Harold’s neck above his collar. He inhaled deeply, trying to get a second whiff of the cologne he’d smelled on Harold earlier. He knew it was strange behavior, but after the care with their phones and watches earlier, John figured that Harold owed him a turn. 

“You’re wearing Finch’s cologne,” he whispered. “Not Wren’s.” 

“Oh?” 

John inhaled again. “Finch’s cologne, Crane’s aftershave, Wren’s suit.” He opened his eyes. “What does all that mean?” he asked. 

“You don’t know?” 

John shook his head. “It’s just a sense memory. I don’t have the background meaning yet.” He paused. “You smell different than the other night. Were you wearing Wren’s cologne then?” 

“Yes.” 

“I like this one better.” 

Harold’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I’ll remember to wear it more often.” 

John smiled in return. “Good.” He inched even closer and kissed the side of Harold’s mouth, unable to stop himself. It had been a long few weeks since the first one in the restaurant, after all, and the dreams about Harold had been enticing. He desperately wanted to see if reality lived up to them. 

Harold raised a hand to press against John’s chest, moving him back slightly. “You have no idea how much I want this, John, but we can’t get distracted yet.” 

“Why not?” 

Harold stood and walked to the window, pulling up the blinds and crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that looked wrong to John. Harold didn’t stand like that, his brain told him. 

“This isn’t going as well as I hoped,” Harold said to the window. 

John sat back on the couch and picked up his tea. The pink-frosted donuts he decided to leave where they were. He had a nagging sensation that he wouldn’t like them. “Well, you’re being pretty mysterious,” he commented. 

“I’m not ready for this meeting,” Harold continued. “I’m not prepared.” 

“That’s what happens when you don’t take someone’s calls and avoid them.” 

“I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do!” 

John set his cup down and stood. “Harold,” he began. 

“We can’t get distracted because if I fall in love with John Warren and John Reese comes back, what am I supposed to do?” Harold demanded. “I’m already in love with him. How can I get used to your carefree smile and deal with losing it? Because you’ll remember, and your smile will go away and then —“ 

John stepped up behind Harold and wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly. 

“Harold,” he crooned. “It’s gonna be ok.” 

“John,” Harold whispered. 

They stood for a long time, Harold leaning against John’s chest, John supporting them both. Outside the window was a view of Prospect Park, the paths clear, but the grass still covered in snow. One of the streetlights flickered. Was that Morse Code? Again? John glanced up at the light over the door. It remained off. He turned his attention to the window. With he and Harold facing the same direction, they could both read the signal, though he wondered if Harold would remember that he could. 

_Ask. Answer. Be honest._

“Where were you on September 11th?” Harold asked. 

“With my girlfriend,” John answered immediately. The light flickered again. 

_Keep going._

“But where? You said that’s the last thing you remember.” 

“A hotel. There were white sheets. It was sunny, and I’d just told her I’d left the army and wanted to build a life with her. She turned on the TV while we waited for room service and we saw it on the news.” 

_Good. Keep going._

“Where?” Harold repeated. 

“Mexico or Niagara Falls. I don’t know which.” He let go of Harold and returned to the couch, sinking into it. He picked up his tea again and took a tentative sip. 

“My email says Niagara Falls, but I can _taste _the tequila and limes. The fresh papaya Jess loved. Only my girlfriend’s name was Allison, and I _know_ that, but when I dream about her, I call her Jessica.” __

Harold nodded, not moving from his place by the window. 

“I wanted to reenlist, fight the terrorists, protect our country, but the look in her eyes… she was so scared. I couldn’t go back and leave her alone.” 

“What if you had gone back? What would your life have been like? Your relationship?” 

“I don’t know. I’d probably be dead by now. Even if I managed to get a spot in the Rangers, the life expectancy isn’t great.” 

“I didn’t find out until that night,” Harold murmured. “I was coding in a lab all by myself. My best friend, Nathan, with whom I owned the company, came in and told me. We sat there watching the news and drinking scotch for hours.” 

“Almost 30 years ago and we still remember it, huh?” 

Squinting, John could just make out the Morse Code message: _Tell him more. Give details. He knew once, so it should be easier to tell him this time._

“Nathan and I went to MIT together,” Harold continued. “We were at the forefront of the computer age, and we had the opportunity to influence its direction as our company grew. By September 11th we were billionaires. We’d wanted to change the world, you see, do something for humanity to move it forward, but all we’d done was help build an industry and our own fortunes. And so went the great disillusionment.” 

“September 11th was a wake-up call for a lot of people,” John commented. 

“The government decided that standard spycraft and intelligence-gathering weren’t doing enough to protect the people from terrorist threats. They commissioned several individuals, Nathan included, to develop a computer program that could do what the government agencies hadn’t been able to do: Detect terrorist attacks and neutralize them before another bombing like that could take place.” 

“How?” 

“By sifting through hundreds of billions of bits of data to determine who was likely to commit an act of terror. No human could do that. No _group_ of humans could do that. But with the NSA feeds, the properly designed computer program could.” 

“Nathan built this program?” John asked. 

“Nathan was the front-man, the public face of our company while I did much of the work behind the scenes. I was a better coder, a better thinker. I could see the strings of code in my head almost completely perfect from the beginning. _I_ built it. I trained it to understand humans and human motivations. I taught it the difference between someone planning a violent act that was relevant to nation security and one that wasn’t. It went online on September 25, 2005 and we turned it over to the government on July 12, 2009. We called it The Machine. The Government called it Northern Lights.” 

John closed his eyes. “A surveillance state. Very Orwellian.” 

“Yes, well, because I anticipated that possibility, I designed the Machine to be a closed system. No one could see its processes, or how it came to the conclusions it did. It gave the government the social security numbers of people who were a threat to national security, and the government then had to decide what to do about it. The government had to find out on their own why the person was important. Then they got to choose: Kill them, interrogate them, leave them alone… But the government couldn’t use the Machine to target individuals or look them up. It wouldn’t take orders from anyone, not even me.” 

“I doubt the government liked that,” John muttered. 

“No, they threatened to cut our funding if we didn’t keep the system open. The only problem with that was that we were selling it to them for $1. We developed our Machine first, so it was the program used. The others were shut down.” 

“What happened?” 

“I thought that was the end of it. I went on to design other programs, do other things. Nathan and I had a falling-out and though we remained friends and business partners, we drifted apart. I met Grace. Nathan’s marriage fell through. His son went to college, then medical school.” 

“It wasn’t the end, thought, was it?” 

“No.” Harold turned, facing John at last. “Does any of this sound familiar to you? You knew it all, once.” 

“It feels like a book I read a long time ago. Or a movie where I don’t remember any details.” 

“When I knew you, your preferred name was John Reese,” Harold said. 

“Why would I have a different name?” 

“Because you _did_ reenlist after September 11th. John Warren isn’t your real name, any more than John Reese is the one you were born with.” 

“I don’t —“ 

“If I tell you what happened to you, what you did, what you were forced to do… you’ll start remembering. I’m almost certain of it.” 

“So tell me!” John exclaimed. “I want to know who I was, who I’m supposed to be. You can’t keep that from me, can you?” 

“The only reason you’re here is because a friend of mine is worried about me and made sure our paths would cross,” Harold said. “She knows — She knew —“ He started pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. John watched him from where he sat. The streetlight out the window stopped flickering. 

“When you almost died to protect me… I thought you were dead. I thought you sacrificed yourself for me and our mission. And you did. When you woke up in the hospital the first time, you were given the option of returning to me or becoming John Warren and never seeing me again. You _chose_ to be John Warren. You _chose_ to leave me to give me the opportunity to move on with Grace. _You_ made the choice to lose your memories so that I could have the life I’d been wanting for as long as you’d known me. That’s why you remember waking up in 2017 instead of 2016 the week after you’d been shot. It took several months to do the experimental procedure to remove your memories and implant John Warren’s identity. And it didn’t entirely stick, since you confuse Allison with Jessica and Mexico with Niagara Falls.” 

“Why would I do that?” 

“I can only speculate.” 

“So, speculate. Why would I give everything up like that?” 

Harold sighed and looked over. He noticed the tense way John held his body, the tightness of his expression. “You wanted me to have a chance at a normal life with the woman I loved. If you’d come back, I wouldn’t have returned to her. I’d have continued our mission as long as you were able to or until it killed us for real. We both knew that. We agreed at the beginning that the job would probably kill us one day, so it wasn’t difficult. You were practiced at dying and reinventing yourself. You probably thought I’d be better off without you.” 

“You’re telling me that I deliberately took my own memories to give you the option of living with your fiancee again?” 

“Yes. It’s what I would have done. What I did to Grace, actually, but that’s a story for another time. I was prepared to offer my life for yours that last day, only you and my friend conspired so that it would be you in place of me.” 

“You think I’d choose to stay John Warren instead of keep my memories?” 

“I suspect so, yes. You’ve always been a caring person, even when your job demanded you not be one.” 

“I care enough about you to sacrifice myself,” John mused, rubbing his chin. Harold sat down next to him. “I care enough about you to leave you,” he added. “Why is your friend worried about you?” 

Harold shook his head. 

“Harold?” 

“You know — knew — me better then anyone else did, except her. Does. She thought I was lonely, without you. That I missed you.” He let out a breath. “She was right.” 

“There’s got to be more than that,” John insisted. “Especially if she’s the one who helped me with the memory thing.” 

“She did,” Harold admitted. “She suggested it, gave you the options.” 

“She told you that?” 

“Yes.” Harold paused. “She wanted us to have the ability to discuss this without triggering all your memories, so we could decide together whether or not you wanted to remember.” 

“Decide together? That’s a little odd, isn’t it?” 

“If I say a certain phrase, your memories will come back. She told me so that I wouldn’t say it by accident before you were ready.” 

“Why is she worried enough to bring me back when she and I decided I was going away?” 

Harold leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes. “I feel so empty inside,” he whispered after a moment. “I started thinking, what if I weren’t here? Wouldn’t Grace’s life be better without me? She’d have my money. She wouldn’t have me moping around the apartment with a clinical depression I refuse to treat. She would’t have to deal with my secrets and lies and inability to be the man we both want me to be.” 

“Suicide,” John said, his blood running cold in his veins. He’d known men who’d done it, vets unable to adjust to civilian life and struggling with PTSD and people who didn’t understand and couldn’t help. He’d thought about it himself, alone in the hospital that first night when he’d woken up and found out it was 2017 and no one knew who he was. The name John seemed familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember his last name. Alone and scared, for a few brief minutes it had seemed like an answer. 

Then rational thought had taken over and he’d figured out that there had to be someone, somewhere who would recognize him. 

“Nothing as deliberate as suicide, nothing planned,” Harold answered, his eyes still firmly closed. “Just wishing I were dead so I wouldn’t be in so much pain any more, so I wouldn’t hurt those I loved.” 

“Death isn’t the answer, Harold. I might not know you very well now, but the thought of you doing something… It makes me afraid.” 

Harold opened his eyes and regarded John thoughtfully. “You weren’t often happy, before. Being with me or in my life, it’ll negate whatever happiness you have now, whatever contentment, whatever freedom.” 

“I’m not happy now,” John countered forcefully. He hadn’t intended to tell Harold any of this, but the man was working on a faulty assumption that John’s life was fine as it was, that he was ok, which was so far from the truth he couldn’t even imagine how Harold came to that assumption. “These past few weeks since we met have been the best I’ve had since I woke in the hospital. I’m excited about something. I’m looking forward to something, to getting to know you. That’s — new.” 

John settled himself more comfortably on the sofa. “Every day I spend 3-4 hours after work at the gym, then do another hour or two of exercise at home just to be able to fall asleep. I go to the gun range so often I have my own locker. I hate my job. I hate my coworkers. I hate what the world’s become since 9/11. 

“I spend Friday and Saturday nights wandering the streets, lurking at bars and clubs, just so I can watch for people drugging their dates and remove them before they can start a scene or rape someone. I take off my $2000 suits and wander the bad parts of town in the middle of the night, looking to stop fights and drug deals. I don’t know why I do it. And yet, every weekend, that’s what I find myself doing, no matter what else might be going on. This isn’t a life Harold, not for me. I don’t know what we did, but it must have been better than this.” 

“You spend your free time trying to help others?” 

“I give away 50% of my salary. I’m thinking about giving away more. I don’t use it. I don’t need it. Why not help someone else?” He opened his eyes to watch Harold’s expression. “One thing I do remember, Harold, is when the FBI thought I was the ‘Man in the Suit,’ a vigilante crime fighter. I’d been at the bank when there was a terrorist attack, and they thought I was involved because I was one of four men wearing a suit who happened to be there when the bomb went off. All I wanted was to get back to my real life, but I have no idea what that was.” He paused, weighed his words carefully. “My life is a hollow shell, a cover identity for the true vigilante I want to be.” 

“You _want_ to be a violent vigilante?” Harold demanded. 

“It’s the only thing that feels right. Banking sure doesn’t.” 

“What about —“ 

“I have a closet full of guns,” John blurted without thinking. Already committed, he reached back and pulled out his gun and put it on the coffee table. He grabbed the one from his ankle holster and the knife from the wrist sheath and placed them carefully next to it. 

Harold’s eyes were wide behind his glasses as he blinked slowly. Over Harold’s shoulder John picked out the streetlight flickering again. He could see the reflection in Harold’s glasses and wondered if Harold could read the words, too. 

_Told you it would be fine._

He must have read the words, because Harold’s face split apart in a grin so wide it looked like it would hurt if it wasn’t so happy. He started laughing. 

“I’m kind of missing the joke, here,” John pointed out, wary of Harold’s sudden shift in mood. 

Harold wiped his eyes and got his giggles under control. He kept looking over at John, smiling and snickering whenever their eyes met. “Maybe I don’t need to worry after all,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss John. 

“I thought you didn’t want —“ 

“Oh, John,” Harold said with a breathy sigh. “You’re still yourself. God above, you’re still yourself.” He sounded relieved and excited and awed all at once. He moved closer, took John’s face in his hands and kissed him more deeply. 

John’s mind, what was left of it after the rest disappeared into kissing Harold, was reeling. He’d been so sure that showing Harold the weapons he’d brought into the apartment would make Harold clam up and send him away. He was sure that even though Harold seemed to like him, he’d have to fight his past to win a place in Harold’s life. He thought Harold would be repulsed by his vigilantism. 

Instead, Harold kissed him, and praised him, and started unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Harold?” 

Harold ignored him, kissing the hollow of his throat. John let out a startled groan. Harold’s hands were on his skin, pushing the shirt and jacket off his shoulders, baring his chest. Then he was pushing Harold to his back and kissing him in return, tugging at his tie and the buttons of his vest. Harold’s hands worked his belt open. 

“Harold!” He grabbed Harold’s hands, stopping him from going further. “What’s gotten into you?” 

Harold paused, staring up at him with a dazed expression. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t — I mean, I’m 67 years old!” 

John laughed, leaning over to kiss Harold into the cushions. “It’s just a myth that people stop having sex at 60, Harold,” he purred. He rubbed his groin over Harold’s obviously excited one to illustrate his point. 

“Thank God!” 

John grinned and started kissing Harold again.


End file.
